After considerable hesitation, old Angélique, with a painful effort that made her upper lip curl up and reveal her two remaining teeth, said:
“If Monsieur does not want a dog, I will return him to M. Dellion’s chef; but you may safely keep him, I assure you. You won’t see or hear him.”
She had hardly finished her sentence when the puppy, hearing a heavy van rolling down the street, sat bolt upright on M. Bergeret’s knees, and began to bark both loud and long, so that the window-panes resounded with the noise.
M. Bergeret smiled.
“He is a watch-dog,” said Angélique, by way of excuse. “They are by far the most faithful.”
“Have you given him anything to eat?” asked M. Bergeret.
“Of course,” returned Angélique.
“What does he eat?”
“Monsieur must be aware that dogs eat bread and meat.”
Somewhat piqued, M. Bergeret retorted that in her eagerness she might very likely have taken him away from his mother before he was old enough to leave her, upon which he was lifted up again and re-examined, only to make sure of the fact that he was at least six months old.